


The King, The Stag and The Hunt

by chibinocho



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tudor Era, Fabulous Outfits, M/M, Tudor Era, bad dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 04:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19055497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibinocho/pseuds/chibinocho
Summary: Hakkai is now Henry, Marquess of Winchester and the new bachelor of the Tudor court that is becoming ever more dangerous. What will he do when a certain Irish redhead appears?





	The King, The Stag and The Hunt

**Author's Note:**

> Finally moved over to AO3 after years of hiatus. This is an old old work written for the Kink Challenge years ago and it's one of my favourite. Filled to the brim with terrible Tudor cliche and gloriously cheesy.  
> I have something new in the works but thought I'd start uploading my stuff here.
> 
> Finally working out AO3 uploading quirks too

Twelfth night celebrations should be a time of merriment and joy, with presents and excess being the general order of the day. Henry Lennox, Marquess of Winchester stood at the side of the hall with a goblet of spiced wine in hand, felt that this was so far not happening. With the recent executions of John Fisher and Sir Thomas More and the ever increasing hostility of the King towards Queen Anne, the court had become a dangerous place to be. Even the Lord of Misrule looked like he was walking a tightrope as he capered around the hall. 

Harry sipped at the wine, pleased to find it still palatable. The food and drink had been the single candle in the darkness, with King Henry being as lavish as ever in his feasts. However, now was the dreaded bit, the inevitable performances and mingling that occurred afterward, with the dancing to follow. This was also his first twelfth night that he was rich in his own right too and therefore was a viable target for various ladies and fathers of ladies who felt him to be a most advantageous son-in-law.

His stepfather had thankfully passed away in March, finally leaving Harry with his father’s title and mother’s wealth (she had been related to one of the Percys and had died four years ago in a riding accident, just after his sister), along with the stately pile that was Winchester Hall and all its lands. Harry thought fondly of the Hall, suddenly wishing more than anything he could be back there continuing the development work of the stables and having the great hall painted. Despite having left the works in charge of his childhood friend and now-steward Sir Samuel, Harry still felt that home would be better than a court full of skittish deer ready to jump any minute, dominated by the whims of a man who had far too much power. It reminded Harry too much of his stepfather.

The now conveniently-deceased Lord of Wessex had not been a particularly kind nor particularly scrupulous man. He had married Harry’s mother after six months of solid suits and once both his sister and mother had died, Lord Wessex had been intent on keeping Harry pinioned and harmless at Oxford before marrying his money-and-codpiece-grabbing niece to Harry in order to keep the wealth in his family (having failed to get the title through the courts where Harry’s years at Oxford with ‘special friends’ that now attended Lincolns Inn had made the court case most entertaining). The sweating sickness had been a blessing really, even if it had carried off about a third of his staff. Still, this now meant he was bachelor number one in the Tudor court and unlikely to be able to retreat to the safety of Winchester Hall until the season turned.

He politely refused Anne Bourchier’s questing gaze and fluffing skirts to sink further into shadows. He still wasn’t quite sure why he was popular. It wasn’t like he tried to be. He had deliberately shaved off his stepfather-enforced beard, worn darker colours, grown his hair a little longer than was fashionable and had started wearing unpadded doublets with minimal slashings, just the way he liked it. Although this time he had allowed some small luxuries: a light sable fur trimming and purple silk slashings to his black doublet, just to subtly advertise his new Marquess status. Call it vanity. Call it boasting. Harry didn’t care.

Elizabeth Stafford smiled at him, pushing one hip forward and shaking her head just enough for Harry to see her waist-length, nut brown, loose hair blossoming from her barely-there French hood. To the untrained eye it was a mere shake of the head but in the court it was an advertisement of virginity and availability to the right man, with the right connections. Harry shuddered and swept his way towards Jane Chivers. A sweet, pleasant girl, Jane had been recently widowed after her much older husband had gone the same way as Harry’s stepfather. Jane was also a safe bet as Harry knew all about her devotion to Carlos Alvarez, one of the Spanish noblemen who had stayed after the Kings divorce. She would happily dance with Harry knowing that nothing need come of it. 

They entered into the dance, performing a controlled and subtle pavane, even earning a smile from the King himself as they glided past him. Say what you like about him but King Henry appreciated good dancers and Harry had earned more than the odd gold coin for performing dances to the King’s own music (Harry’s sister, a beautiful dancer herself, had taught him every step she had known). As the musicians picked up tempo into a galliard, Harry let himself fall into the dance. Being light on his feet and fond of music; he had always been good at dancing.

Harry smiled at the petite yet buxom woman who looked at him so kindly from her more traditional gabled hood. She was a healer too, he knew. Having looked after her aging husband for years she had a way with poultices and plants that had proved so helpful to Alvarez during his own sickness from the unforgiving English climate, a level of care that had blossomed into love. As Harry passed Alvarez with a beautifully executed cadence he caught his eyes with a slight smile and received a dignified incline of the head of approval. Alvarez knew of their unspoken agreement and approved, patiently waiting through Jane’s mourning period before they could marry.

As Harry moved around the floor, he caught a flicker of red and green from the corner of his eye from one of the dancers. He looked back seeing a flash of red hair and was suddenly interested to see who was taking part in the dance and more to the point, keeping up with him. He deliberately adjusted his next jump to see it, knowing that Jane would happily fall into step with him. The King moved past him, blocking his view with his own overly-dramatic take on the galliard and Harry once again, made a large leap to gain a better view.

It was a man. A tall man with a smiling face and a head of flaming red hair, who was dancing with a starry-eyed Margaret Bourchier, who was struggling to keep up with his animated attempt at the galliard. His red hair was long to mid-back and slightly wavy, catching the candlelight beautifully and making him look wild. He was also dressed extremely flamboyantly, in a dark green knee length tunic and snug-fitting breeches that were both trimmed with a strange green and blue chequered pattern. A gathered sash in the same chequered pattern hung on his right shoulder, pinned in place with an elaborate golden brooch with further thick golden bands decorating each wrist highlighting a pair of tanned, muscular arms. His face was fresh and clear, with high dramatic cheekbones and his skin golden from the sun. He was delicious.

He moved dramatically on the dance floor with his sash flying and his feet – clad in the thinnest, most foot-hugging boots Harry had ever seen – flew across the wooden boards as if on air. Harry found himself matching him step for step, at least before he noticed that not only was the stranger watching him with smouldering eyes. However the King himself was following them, increasing his own steps into time with this exotic man. For mere minutes the three all fell into a furious competition before relaxing into the end of the dance. King Henry himself – red-faced and flustered - raised a hand to stop them.

“I believe our foreign visitor has set us a challenge. As true English we cannot expect such a challenge to remain unanswered.” Declared the King, letting the woman – a flighty Howard girl who had once been rather interested in Harry – he was dancing with slink off into the crowds to rest her aching feet (Harry had seen the red, heeled shoes flashing beneath the skirts and the slight limping as she moved away). “Let us see what he can do.” He gestured for Harry to come forward.

Harry kissed Jane’s hand out of courtesy and let her glide gracefully back to Alvarez. The redhead emulated his behaviour toward the Bourchier girl – if with a little more passion than Harry – leaving them both standing either side of the king. 

“Winchester is one of our finest dancers at court and yet one of our quietest,” he slapped Harry’s back none too gently, Harry pulled his features into a grimacing smile and the King laughed. “He’s the new twelfth night gift for many of our ladies.” There was a ripple of laughter and Harry’s face burned. The King gestured for silence. “I would like to see our visitor try and surpass our fine English gentleman.”

“Of course, your Gracious Majesty.” Came the response from the red head with a voice as smooth as the wine Harry had imbibed. A beautiful accent too; a faint lilt that he had never heard before. Certainly not the typical French or Spanish. As Harry looked closer at the challenger, he could see that his eyes were reddish too; a powerful mahogany-like shade. He was a temptation indeed.

“Excellent, a solo salterella then.” Declared King Henry, retiring to his throne to observe, gesturing to the musicians to play on.

The man rose onto the balls of his feet, Harry doing the same. The more frivolous side to him believed he should have worn brighter colours, in more fashionable clothes but he firmly smothered that notion as he fell into the cadence, executing a perfect leap that the redhead mimicked equally beautifully, moving near to him in a single movement. Harry fell into a turn, letting his footwork build up speed with the music, grateful for his comfortable velvet shoes. It was a dance he knew well, once again from his dear sister before her marriage and early death through miscarriage. He remembered the days they had spent together: her dressed in his breeches and undershirt knotted at her waist and him in the clothes more suited to a spit boy than a future Marquess. As she had shown him the steps – eager to be the fashionable lady herself when her marriage time came – they had spent wonderful days in the fields trying to out do each other.

Harry executed another perfect leap, including a flick of his foot for show, noticing that the stranger was using his waist and arms more, more able to move in the loose tunic than Harry in his heavy doublet (although thankfully no corset beneath, he had never needed one in all his life and wasn’t going to start now). The stranger looked primitive in his movement, with a feral elegance that reminded Harry of an animal readying himself to fight another. In response to this, Harry promptly doubled his efforts, allowing his legs to extend and make larger cadences and jumps, leaping like a stag in a hunt, keeping his toes pointed. He was slimmer that this man and lighter on his feet, it should be easy to make the moves more graceful. He focused his eyes on the stranger, daring him to respond.

“Stunning.” Came the murmur from his opponent’s lips as he dipped low into the movement, barely a foot away from Harry.

Those mahogany eyes stared back at him, fearless and unflinching but sparkling in flirtation. Harry took a large step forward in the movements, launching into what could have been seen as a sword thrust, had he one in his hand. The stranger dodged and spun, fingers brushing Harry’s, making them burn. The stranger turned back, his mouth splitting into a white-toothed grin that damn near took Harry’s breath away. There was now challenge in the eyes and Harry fell into a defensive position as he would in fencing. The stranger whirled into him and Harry turned out, adding a further leap into the bargain, still not forgetting the competition. The stranger moved forwards into him, looking almost ready to strike a blow but slid past Harry with nary a glance but a lust-filled whisper.

“Utterly beautiful.”

Harry turned out again, his feet bending for another leap that turned into a feint. The stranger moved into two steps but Harry knew the song well. He knew the King’s own compositions when he heard them and knew the change in key well. The first time it had happened, it had caught him off guard and the King had laughed along with the court, leaving Harry with no small amount of humiliation and he had never forgotten it. Instead of falling into the turn, he put all the power into his back foot and performed a perfect posture, sliding past the stranger with a whisper of fabric, finally standing with his back straight and falling into a bow on the last note.

The stranger had missed it, falling two steps short on the song. Harry had won.

The court burst into applause and Harry found himself surrounded by a flock of women cooing at him as did his dancing partner. King Henry himself handed him a small token of one of his own silver eating knives, commenting on the unusual stance he had taken and issued the command for Harry to perform it at the next banquet in a tone that invited no refusal. Harry agreed as voraciously as he could, spewing out the standard response of how much of an honour it was to be serving his king, all the while thinking about the redhead that was now chatting amiably to the ladies, ignoring Harry. Obviously those comments had been a feint of his own then. Clever.

Excusing himself from the admirers and managing to avoid another pair of Howard girls that were seeking him out for the next dance, Harry left the hall seeking out a quiet place to gather his thoughts. He finally found a small lodging room off one of the wings. It had already been laid out for a visitor with a large washbowl and an ewer filled with mercifully cool water. Harry’s hands plunged gratefully into the ewer, splashing his face with the cool drops.

The man had been so handsome. Harry wasn’t adverse to those pleasures that were so condemned by the Church. If the Staffords had only known what exactly had happened to their Master of Horse they would be utterly horrified, suffice to say that the whip had been in sore need of replacing. Equally, his Master of History at Oxford had certainly taught him a thing or two about the best positions for learning the penetration of the Roman forces from the South. Certainly the stranger had fired those kinds of feelings in the pit of his stomach and his cock now pulsed against his snug-fitting hose in memory. He pushed a hand against the thin leather of his codpiece, concealed by his doublet and wondered if there was just enough time …

“Still just as beautiful when not dancing.”

Harry moved like lightning but hands flew around his waist and clapped tightly over his mouth. Harry immediately sprang to life and student days of wrestling matches had him immediately twisting forwards and rolling his shoulder, hoping to throw his attacker, but the man held firm, slipping his foot between Harry’s and unceremoniously dumping him chest first onto the herb strewn floor. The sweet scent of lavender was soon washed away by the stronger masculine scent with musk and ambergris as Harry was yanked onto his back. He kicked and fought against the grip, inwardly cursing at leaving his dagger in his rooms for evening. He punched out but a strong hand captured both of his wrists and slammed them against the floor.

“Hush now.” Heavy accent, wine-spiced breath and firm thighs against his own, “Calm yourself. I’m here to see you not kill you.” Harry blinked open his eyes.

The red-headed man was above him, tanned shadows cast in shadow due to the dim candlelight and panting like an animal. Harry drew a breath that he didn’t realise he was holding. The man was even more striking against the softened light and his face was gentle as he looked down at Harry. Harry glowered.

“Kindly get off me.” He said coolly, flexing his wrists in a certain way that had the man drawing back in pain and standing up. Harry rose up, correcting his clothing. “I do not take kindly to assaults upon my person.”

The man raised his hands in surrender.

“As I said, I’m not here to hurt you,” He grinned a little. “I was actually hoping for an introduction in the hall but your bulky king would not oblige … too busy with his creamy-bosomed whores and crabby queen.” He laughed. Harry composed himself, brushing the remainder of lavender from his doublet.

“That would be my Gracious King you would be talking about.” He shot back, adjusting his hose and garter, actually feeling the stranger’s eyes on him as he did so.

“If your ‘Gracious King’ spent more time pleasing his would-be-allies instead of buttering up his next would-be wife, he would have France back,” The man shook back his hair. “Enough of that, right now I must know your name, a man who can best me in dancing must be introduced… and I have hunted you all over this palace tonight.”

“Lord Henry Lennox, 2nd Marquess of Winchester, Baron of Southhampton, Lord of Lennox.” As much as Harry hated his list of titles, giving the stranger the full list might make it clear how much of a faux pas he had made in manhandling Harry so and therefore Harry would not have to dash him over the head with the ewer of water simply to make a point.

The stranger swept a low bow.

“Charming, a suitably varied range of titles and the aristocratic training to boot.” He laughed again; Harry was surprised to find himself waiting for that laughter.

“And I would be Conchobhar mac Eoghain Chaoich Ó Conchobhair Donn, King of Connacht, although Eoghain has always suited me.”

An Irishman. And an Irish King nonetheless. Well that explained some of the reasons behind the strange dress and red hair. It could also explain his lack of restraint when dancing the galliard. However, what it didn’t explain was the man’s apparently flawless English, ability to dance the galliard in the first place and his full awareness of the Kings politics. Most of all, though – Harry found himself wondering – what in God’s name was an Irish King doing at King Henry’s court. It was common knowledge that Henry saw the Irish lands as some where to pacify his lesser lordlings with a fancy title, ignoring the general populace of Ireland itself.

He voiced this concern in not quite as many words and was surprisingly pleased to hear Eoghain’s throaty laugh again.

“Ah yes, I suppose that would warrant some explanation. Your giant of a King made a half-hearted request to his poor, little Irish underlings some time ago asking them to come to court to learn the ‘civilised’ ways of the English.” He laughed and reached for the jug of wine by the bed. Harry found himself falling into a fighting stance, he did not trust this man as far as he could throw him (and Harry could throw a long way). Eoghain hefted the jug and took a deep swallow, smacking his lips loudly and chasing a stray droplet with a deep pink tongue. “Christ’s bones, but you have good wine here! I could swim in a lake of it!” 

Harry was fascinated by the way the man moved around the room, looking almost fluid in his movements. He inspected the posted bed and the feather mattress with all the curiosity of the Chancellor exclaiming about the quality and criticising the English need for comfort, waxing lyrical about Irish castles. He tapped the dark wood panel walls and caressed the canopy’s tapestry, criticising the lack of colours and patterns before approaching Harry again, the candlelight striking his dark red hair aflame.

“You were magnificent at the dance.” Murmured Eoghain thoughtfully, “Very fluid and so light on your feet, almost like our own dancers back home … the pretty girls whose feet are a blur as they move, even as it’s from your bed.” He chuckled. “No more of them though …you interest me … you were like a stag in a hunt, waiting to take on anyone with an arrow and outrun them.”

“You dance the same steps as the Court?” asked Harry, curious and determined to avoid sexual conversation. Eoghain moved a little nearer and Harry could see that despite outward appearances, Eoghain wasn’t much taller than he was. 

“Dance steps? Those weren’t dance steps at your Court just some fancy walking and jumping. I would take you to Connacht and show you real dancing.” Eoghain leaned towards Harry, arm coming out to circle Harry’s waist and pull him in close. “I would want to take you, my stag.”

Harry reacted by raising his hand to slap the man away but Eoghain was quicker, moving away from the slap and reeling Harry in, pressing their chests together. Harry realised he could feel the other man’s heartbeat against his own; swathed in velvet and silk and the heady smell of the man’s scent. He struggled.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t feel the attraction when we were dancing.” Came Eoghain’s throaty voice, this time with a cocky tone. “You wanted me then and I want you now … and we’re alone and there’s a bed ... Don’t run from me, my prize.” a hand ran up his leg and cupped his buttocks none-too gently.

Harry thrust his leg between Eoghain’s and kicked back, landing a shot to the back of the man’s knee and broke free of the embrace as Eoghain buckled. He twisted around the Irish King and shoved him roughly – chest-first against the wall, drawing his newly awarded eating knife and holding it against the Irishman’s throat as he pressed him into the wall. Regardless of what the rules were in Ireland, at this court sodomy carried a death sentence and with the current suspicions circling around the queen and the Church in turmoil, Harry needed to remain an innocent. Also this man was being downright rude.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you here and now.” He said quietly into Eoghain’s ear, pressing the knife a little closer for emphasis.

“Because your cock is hard.” Came the reply.

Harry jerked away in shock and the knife clattered into the rushes. He was glad the doublet covered his indeed-throbbing cock. Eoghain turned back, surprisingly enough not glaring or seeming ready to kill – although Harry could not help but notice the bulge in Eoghain’s own breeches. Golden wrist bands glinted in the candlelight as he bowed low.

“I will not give up, my stag. When I hunt I seek to win.” Said the Irishman, “But for now, all I would require from you now is a kiss.” 

Before Harry could object, Eoghain had stepped forward, cradled his face and bestowed the softest kiss Harry had ever experienced. Questing lips opened against his own and Harry couldn’t help but reciprocate, caressing the invading tongue with his own with a moan. A strong hand ran up his back and another slid into his hair making him gasp into the kiss. With a final furious squeeze, Eoghain released his victim.

“I will hunt you.” He whispered, fleeing from the room leaving Harry with bruised lips and a sense of longing he simply couldn’t express in words.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

With King Henry dissatisfied with Christmas being only twelve days long and his irritation with the queen growing daily, he had extended the celebrations into hunts, jousts and masques which very often lasted throughout the days and much of the nights. Since his dancing performance, Harry found himself swept into the events and at the same time found himself not just pursued by the single Ladies but also being subtly wooed by the King of Connacht.

On the first day after the heated exchange in the bedchamber, the gentlemen of the privy chamber and other nobility assembled for a large new years hunt to end with a picnic in the woods nearby to the palace. King Henry led the procession, swathed in ermine, atop his huge bay destrier that was snorting and stamping in the crisp January air flanked by his gentlemen courtiers, Harry included. 

Harry adjusted his velvet riding hat, conscious of the rabbit fur lining on his gloves tickling his cheek as he did so. The gloves had been gift that had been tucked under his saddle as he led Dragon out of the stables they had had a small scrap of paper accompanying them.

_For your mount, although I would rather be mounting you._

Eoghain was mounted already on a handsome chestnut stallion that was anxious to be away. Mahogany eyes caught his own and Harry was given a satisfied smile as Eoghain caught sight of the gloves. Harry ignored him and spurred his own horse forward into the hunt. Dragon – his own white stallion who had been a rather expensive gift to himself with his stepfather’s inheritance – was less stocky than the other mounts but far more elegant, with Barbary blood and flew forward at the slightest nudge, taking Harry far away from Eoghain and his sultry eyes …

… although he knew as he rode away at speed that Eoghain would now have a full view of his arse in the snug-fitting breeches as he rode.

At the masque that same night – now a celebratory masque as the King had brought down a deer – Harry had found a note in his own costume.

_Two Kings at a hunt. One fells a doe with the point of an arrow. One wishes to take a stag. What kind of prick will it take to bring it down?_

The notes continued over the next few days, varying between the quite frankly banal such as comments on court gossip or an idle compliment about England, to notes so explicit that Harry had had to excuse himself from dinner to a private chamber. The rabbit-trimmed gloves had already been used more than once for sinful activities. Gifts had arrived too, such as a pair of the close-fitting boots similar to what Eoghain himself wore, a distinctly Celtic-looking belt buckle and several long feathers ( _From a gerfalcon … when hunting one must be prepared_ ). However, through it all, Eoghain had still kept up a steady stream of banter, delighting Harry and others alike with his exploits in Ireland and his dangerous trip over, never mentioning their almost-courtship or even friendship in company.

One night King Henry decided on another dance, as a gift to his new favourite, a gentle lady called Jane Seymour. Harry decked himself out in his finest green velvet with the celtic belt buckle and on the accompanying hat he had carefully pinned the falcon feathers, obviously not intending to interest Eoghain at all. The dancing was already in full swing and at King Henry’s insistence, Harry joined in the minute he was spotted. He found himself once again up against the other men of the court dancing, including another new gentleman who was clad in black and gold. They danced a few rounds; with Harry selecting Jane Chivers again for his dance and had a pleasant conversation about her progress with her herb garden and reading of Arab medical texts. They shared a fascination with books and it was always pleasant talking with another. Additionally, it took Harry’s mind off Eoghain.

During the banquet Harry picked at the food, idly watching Queen Anne’s attempt to engage her husband in conversation. It was all over the court that she had miscarried again and Harry found himself pitying her. Although truth be known he couldn’t think about that now, as he was a little put out that Eoghain’s attempts appeared to have stopped. Secretly, he had been rather enjoying the attention. Someone sat next to him and he ignored them, until a familiar Irish drawl greeted his ears.

“So, you don’t notice me now. Obviously this was a poor choice of costume … and I do not care for these codpieces either, they chafe against my prick.”

The black and gold gentleman sat next to him and with a large element of surprise Harry realised that it was Eoghain, wearing the outfit of a true Tudor gentleman with his red mane tucked into his black cap. Ashamedly, Harry’s own prick throbbed in his hose.

“Eoghain?”

A smile illuminated the Irishman’s face.

“That’s the first time you have called me by name.” he said throatily. “You have been thinking of me?”

“I confess a little … you have pestered all my messengers, how could I not?” Harry smiled. 

“You have captured me.” Eoghain’s fingers caressed down Harry’s thigh, “I will give you only two more gifts as I have to leave for home tomorrow.” With a quick kiss on the cheek and something hard pressed into his hand, Eoghain left the table without giving Harry a chance to speak.

He opened his hand. It was the silver eating knife, now covered with the most delicate of engravings including Celtic knots and a beautifully rendered stag.

That night Harry barely slept, distracted by thoughts of Eoghain leaving and his own hopeless arousal when he thought of the man. Thoughts of being in great hall and simply pushing Eoghain over the table for his own pleasure surrounded by every lord and lady watching. Taking Eoghain’s cock in his mouth during a hunt. Even being sodomised in a Church by Eoghain during mass, blaspheming as he came. Fruitless twisting against the sheets and finally stripping off his nightshirt found Harry pressing his hot forehead against the cool glass of the window, fisting his erect cock furiously. As he spurted into his palm, he sighed at the half-pleasure he experienced. Tomorrow Eoghain would be gone, and with it would go Harry’s infatuation. It was now time to put away these things and probably think about a wife … or a tall, red-headed stableboy with a propensity to keeping his mouth shut.

The final evening was yet another banquet with dancing and performances after a days worth of hunting, officially to bid farewell to the King of Connacht. However, unofficially it was to appease and cheer King Henry who had already set his spies on the supporters of Queen Anne, determined to replace her with Jane Seymour who was shining like a fresh virginal pearl in a cream and yellow gown, being flanked and dangled like a sweetmeat by her “protective” family.

Eoghain had already presented his parting gifts to the King. The first being a great haunch of venison and a large boar; both of which he had brought down himself with his own Irish longbow exhibiting a deadly accurate aim. The gift was, on the surface, a great compliment to Henry’s great lands and traditional offering at a feast. However, the court was also very much aware that Eoghain was making a subtle parting shot at the King’s lack of success in the hunt that day by advertising his own prowess. Henry, in turn had presented Eoghain with a fine saddle complete with finally stitched saddlebags. Although once again, on the surface, it was a beautiful and well-thought out gift but an unspoken hint that Eoghain had outstayed his welcome.

Eoghain himself was resplendent this evening. This time he wore a rich emerald green tunic and breeches, trimmed in a rich amethyst satin, which matched checks of the sash he wore over his shoulder. His red hair was loose and flowing, shining in the light of the torches and candles. The gold wrist bands were back, this time accompanied by a crested brooch holding the sash in place. A thin golden circlet encircled his head and a golden belt buckle studded with amethyst cabochons highlighted his slender waist. It was obvious that Eoghain intended to flaunt his royal status and played up to it for much of the evening; making a speech, dancing with as many ladies as he could and even demonstrating musical prowess on a harp, playing a traditional ballad that delighted much of the ladies of the court, much to the King’s annoyance.

Although through it all, he barely acknowledged Harry, even leaving the hall without a word to anyone. It was most frustrating.

Harry retired soon after he realised Eoghain had left, withdrawing to his quarters and even turning away his servants. He wished to be left alone. Some of the more romantic ladies of the court would have said that he was yearning for his lover but Harry knew it was bubbling anger at being played. He sat up a while by the fire, with several candle stubs, reading the latest book from his dealer, indulging in spiced wine that had been warmed with a poker and wondering about returning to Winchester Hall. The favourites of Anne Boleyn were in trouble and with the King’s ever increasing mood swings and petulance, Harry wondered if the Hall would be far safer.

As he turned a page and wondered about calling for his horse and manservants tomorrow ready for the long journey back, and dispatching a letter to Sir Samuel, the window rattled and slammed open.

Harry whirled out of the chair in an instant, hand dropping to his belt for the silver eating knife. The January wind was harsher than ever and he strained to see in the dim light, only making out a large lumpen shape.

“Holy Mary, mother of God what’s a man got to do to get into a bedroom these days! The Ladies make it so much easier! They leave the latches undone!” Came Eoghain’s voice as he climbed through the window.

“H-How in the world did you get up here?” exclaimed Harry, holding the knife steady as Eoghain dropped into the room, patting the snow off his cloak into the rushes.

“Like all good Irishmen, I climbed!”

Harry’s next words were lost as Eoghain crossed the room in three strides and swept him into his arms. Harry returned the embrace with fervour, opening his mouth to Eoghain’s and finally biting at his full bottom lip. Eoghain moaned and ground against him, the codpiece-less breeches leaving nothing to the imagination. Harry gasped at the movement and grasped a handful of Eoghain’s buttocks to pull him closer so their members rubbed against each other.

“I need to see you unclothed, now.” Came Eoghain’s breathless whisper.

In the guttering candlelight, Harry removed his clothing taking care to linger a little over the unfastening of each button and the undoing of each tie. Then Eoghain himself did the same until Harry himself drew his hose down over his thighs, leaving them puddling around Eoghains’s boots whilst he knelt down and inspected Eoghain’s member. A glorious thing, full and thick surrounded by a halo of darker red hair. He opened his mouth and took in the head, wondering at the salty, clean taste of it and steadily taking it in deeper, determined not to gag.

“A Thighearna!” came the sudden sound as Harry circled his tongue around the now-sensitive head and pushed underneath the foreskin. Harry guessed the outburst was Gaelic and jabbed his tongue into the slit to hear it again. Hands slipped into his hair, pulling him closer and he moaned at the sensation, releasing Eoghain’s cock to take a breath.

“The bed…” said Eoghain breathlessly, pulling Harry to his feet. “I want take you in your bed.”

Harry absent-mindedly wondered if he should object to Eoghain’s assumption that Harry would be underneath him but the thought of Eoghain inside him, stretching him and riding him to orgasm was far too appealing to pass up. He let himself be pushed on the feather bed, pulling Eoghain down with him into a frenzy of kissing and caressing. Eoghain moaned and thrust along Harry’s thigh, running his tongue down Harry’s neck and biting at the junction between next and shoulder, seeking to leave a mark. Harry thumbed and teased at Eoghain’s nipples, revelling in the man’s broken gasps and sighs.

They rolled together until Harry was lying on his front, gripping the bolster and Eoghain’s knowing fingers were teasing down his spine and kneading his buttocks as Harry’s cock leaked over the richly embroidered covers. Suddenly Eoghain’s large strong hands caressed down and held his cheeks apart, exposing his hole. Harry flinched as cold air blew across his most intimate entrance.

“You are beautiful.” Came the sultry murmur as a wet tongue licked across his hole. “Have you any idea the torture I have been under trying to avoid simply having you in front of your Court? Over your King’s table?” he licked harder “It has been torture seeing you dance with countless women.” The tongue jabbed at his hole and Harry writhed. “Seeing you appeasing your King; when you should be appeasing me.” Harry’s response was lost in a strangled groan as Eoghain’s sinful tongue slid deeper into him, tasting him in deeper ways than he had ever known. God only knows what the Church would think of this practice, although Harry seemed to be sinning before he even broke his fast these days. He gripped the pillow and ground his cock against the covers as two fingers slid inside him, causing a sweet stretch that he hadn’t experienced for years.

“Ah, Eoghain!” he gripped the bolster and made a faint mewling sound as the fingers increased to three a little too quickly and rubbed up against something that had him twisting and thrusting against the bed, desperate for release. He felt so free like this: no expectations, no formalities and no rules of the Court, just lost in the absolute pleasure of someone worshipping his body. A hard cock rubbed against the back of his knee and he thrust back on the fingers a final time before rolling over and wordlessly spreading his legs in invitation.

“Caught you, my stag.” Came the throaty growl.

Eoghain raised Harry’s legs, exposing his saliva-slick hole, before shuffling forward and easing his cock in. Harry winced at the entrance. It had been a long time since he had been penetrated (having usually been on top with most of his partners) and Eoghain was by no means a small man. The pain was enough to cause him to tighten up in panic and Eoghain stilled, kissing his eyelids and cheeks before dipping in for another soul-searing kiss. His beautiful mahogany eyes were ablaze with concern.

“Relax yourself, I can pull out if it is painful. I won’t hurt you.” His heavy accent sounded a good deal heavier now it was flavoured with passion, but the very thought of losing this experience simply because he couldn’t take a little pain was anathema to Harry who had long ago taken as his motto as “strength at all costs”. He gripped the bolster and forced himself down onto Eoghain’s member, gasping through the burning sensations as he was filled to the very limit.

“Oh god, my beautiful Stag, that was a stupid thing to do.” Eoghain said harshly, between furious kisses. “I hope you aren’t this risky on the battlefield, you’d make a formidable opponent.” 

“You’ll find I’m formidable in all areas.” Replied Harry, squeezing around Eoghain’s prick, satisfied when he heard the Irishman moan.

“I like a challenge.” Came the answer and he withdrew enough to have Harry squirming on the very tip of his prick before raising Harry’s legs up to his shoulders and thrusting deeply in the tight arse so beautifully displayed for him. They fell into an easy rhythm, Harry’s pain lessening as Eoghain’s pleasure increased. The Irishman’s head was thrown back; the gold circlet catching the remains of candlelight and highlighting every scar and plane and hard muscle. It reminded Harry of the Italian sculptures and paintings he had seen. Eoghain was a veritable Greek god, bought to life.

Harry had always liked possessing beautiful things.

“Then you’ll find I’m full of surprises.” Responded Harry, hooking his legs around Eoghain’s and rolling them over. With a harsh moan, Eoghain slipped from him and Harry grasped his member in a tight fist before raising himself upwards and impaling himself on Eoghain’s cock in one deep movement that had him arching his back in the sheer pleasure of it all.

It was Eoghain’s turn to groan as Harry rode him mercilessly, hands planted on his chest for balance. Eoghain was not to be defeated though, reaching for Harry’s own neglected cock and pumping it with his own sweaty fist even as he thrust his hips with ever-increasing force, pressing his cock further and further into Harry. Harry swore at the motion, tossing his head back like an enraged stallion, clenching his entrance around Eoghain’s throbbing cock. He was building up to the release of his pleasure and couldn’t stop it. Eoghain’s movements became more ragged and his moans became more and more vocal, some in Gaelic some in broken English.

Just as Harry thought he could take no more, Eoghain’s body locked up and lifted Harry high into the air.

“Táim ag teacht!”  
“Oh dear god!”

Seed rushed through him, spattering Eoghain’s chest and neck in sticky wetness even as Eoghain filled him with his own seed, still gasping what were no doubt swear words in Gaelic as he lifted Harry high. Pleasure tingled through his body and he collapsed onto Eoghain’s chest, panting heavily. Eoghain’s hands threaded through his hair and ran down his sweat-tainted back and Harry felt loved for the first time since his sister died.

After using the sheet to wipe themselves down they lay together under the covers for some time, exploring each others bodies silently in the guttering candle-light. Harry’s insides ached but somehow, with Eoghain’s strong, sure hands touching his body it made the pain so covetable and delicious.

“You must come with me. Now.” Said Eoghain finally, sitting up in the bed. “I can’t return without you, yet I must return home.” Eoghain reached out of the bed for his fallen cloak, pulling out a cloth bag. Rummaging in it, he drew out a gold ring with a smooth cabochon emerald on it. “I would pledge myself to you.” He offered it to Harry.

Henry lay back against the bolster. It was tempting. To simply leave this wretched court and all its suspicions and spies and to spend days with Eoghain, experiencing the rough, endless green of Ireland (as Eoghain had described it) with the freedom to go if he should care to was a powerful seduction. The freedom was tempting and the knowledge that he had jewels and monies already waiting in his lodgings here provided more than enough the reasoning to go. He held out his hand, fingers spread.

“I will.”

Eoghain smiled, placed the ring on the appropriate finger and drew back the covers, reaching for his clothes

“Arrah! Then let us go! Our horses have been waiting long enough!”

Epilogue  
*******

Samuel pulled the velvet hat off his blond hair and lazily rested his tankard on the table, crossly noting the dust. Winchester Hall had been without its lord now for five years with no word of returning from wherever he had gone but that was not going to stop Samuel from keeping it in good order. The Marquess was a good master if not a well-paying one and had laid in a considerable amount of money for Samuel to keep the Hall in order when he was gone and through respect for his friend – yes friend, they had been companions as children despite the class differences – he was determined to carry through the order.

“Sir Samuel! Sir Samuel!”

George – orphan of an impoverished Marcher family and ward of the Winchesters, now Samuel’s responsibility – came scrambling in, bearing a roll of parchment. Samuel didn’t thank the boy but nodded his head in a gesture of thanks before sitting in the Masters chair to read the parchment.

_Samuel, my brother,_

_I will arrive home in seven days from the delivery of this missive. I bring with me a gentleman retainer, a Mr Connor, who will require the suite of rooms next to my own. Ensure they are furnished and cleaned appropriately to the standard of a nobleman._

_You may take extra on your wages for this service._

_Harry_

_P.S – Enclosed are the papers concerning the ownership of counties Galway and Roscommon. Ensure they are delivered to the Inns of Court._

_P.P.S –Ensure that no more hunting of deer is taken on my lands again._

__

Samuel sighed and went to summon the maids.


End file.
